Jerry Gervase Central Coasting

I make a concentrated effort not to write about celebrities or about events to which most of us will never be invited. However, I need to make an exception this week or there would be no way to tell you about my secret love affair with actress Jane Seymour.

The reason the secret was kept so well is that Jane didn't even know about it.

Of course, being a gentleman, I did not mention it -- even to my closest friends. Then why talk about it now? Because the secret is out. Several people saw us together recently. So now I feel compelled to talk about it.

I became aware of Ms. Seymour in 1980 when I saw the movie, "Somewhere In Time." It is a movie about time-travel, romance, obsession, a dream girl, and love. Take these ingredients and stir in a healthy dose of Jane Seymour, a handsome Christopher Reeve fresh from his triumph over the Gene Hackman the year before in "Superman -- The Movie," and set them down on Michigan's Mackinac Island -- a place where one literally goes back in time -- and you have a film that would make an incurable romantic write sonnets with an ABAB rhyme scheme with words such as excited, fashion, requited and passion.

Now let me throw one more little bit of stage business into this drama: my wife and I honeymooned at the Grand Hotel on Mackinac Island. Well, that's not quite true. I was still in school so we couldn't afford to stay at the Grand Hotel. We spent one day on the island, most of it at the hotel.

So you can imagine my excitement when I read in The Herald's "GO!" section" that Ms. Seymour was appearing at a gallery in Carmel that was featuring her art work. I knew the showing would be crowded since there was a Friday evening reception with champagne and hors d'oeuvres but avid art patrons bent on stuffing themselves with paté and quiche could not deter me from seeing my dream girl up close. So I called a dear friend, a lady of patrician elegance in her own right, and asked her to accompany me.

"We won't be able to find a parking place," she said.

"That's why I'm asking you," I said, "you can drop me off and circle the block." I knew I would pay dearly for that remark since my friend is from Russia and has the authority to send me off to a Siberian gulag where I would spend the rest of my days huddling with huskies for warmth on a three-dog night.

The gallery was indeed mobbed, but most of the crowd was congregating around the food tables. Apparently art aficionados prefer canapés to canvases. My friend and I bypassed the food and headed directly to the area where Ms. Seymour was waiting for us. Yes, waiting for us. There wasn't a soul near her. She was 15 feet away, standing demurely in front of one of her paintings. She was wearing a lovely iridescent silver dress that shimmered with her slightest movements. Her tawny hair glistened in the gallery lights and her smile could have overwhelmed a power outage. Suddenly I was transformed somewhere in time to the final scene of the movie where she stood wearing a white gown. Bright backlighting shot rays of light from her body as she stretched out her hand to welcome Christopher Reeve. My feet were Velcro-ed to the floor.

"Move, you capitalistic consumer of more than your share of the earth's resources," said a gentle voice from Moscow, "she's waiting to speak to us."

And there I was.

Standing next to Jane Seymour. Our faces not 18 inches apart. I moved my lips, hoping words and not just spittle and drool would emanate from my mouth. I don't remember what I said, aside from proposing marriage. She said something in her charming English accent. Suddenly charming English accent met charming Russian accent and I may as well have been in Siberia for all they cared. You know how those Internationals disdain locals.

While the women prattled on, I examined an original Jane Seymour entitled "Woman in Repose." It was a painting of a woman in a peach colored dress, wearing a sun hat, sitting in a beautiful garden.

"I used myself as the model," Ms. Seymour said, "and the colors are the ones in my living room." I may have said something about seeing the same colors at Home Depot.

"It's only $17,500," a gallery staff member said when he noticed me staring at the painting.

"I don't suppose you'd take a free subscription to The Herald," I said.

He gave me a condescending look and turned to a man wearing black leather pants who had his Visa card hanging from a gold cord around his neck.

Later, I complained to my friend how someone -- probably from Pebble Beach -- had beaten me out of the $17,500 painting that I was planning to take to Home Depot for a color match so I could paint my living room like Jane's.

"Ah, my poor little apparatchik," she comforted me, "let's go back to my place for some Absolut and beluga."

"Great idea," I replied, "perhaps Nick-at-Nite is showing Dr. Quinn re-runs."